


From Beacon Hills to Middle Earth

by Rori_Teagan



Category: Teen Wolf (TV), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Flirting, BAMF Sheriff Stilinski, Derek is Not a Failwolf, First Time, Fix-It, M/M, Thorin Feels, eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-17 19:02:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5882032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rori_Teagan/pseuds/Rori_Teagan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>…And Back Again. Hopefully. If Derek doesn’t get them impaled first. Or Eaten. Or bludgeoned. Or incinera– you know what? Just turn around and stop looking at all the animate people-things, clearly it’s your face that’s offensive.</p><p> A.K.A. --if you don’t put down the Hobbit and figure out a way to get us back, Stiles, I swear to God I’m ripping your throat out with –</p><p>Let me guess ye of limited persuasive repertoire, your teeth? </p><p>…if you’re lucky.</p><p>A.K.A. Stiles and Derek have been transported to Middle Earth where a little Hobbit by the name of Bilbo Baggins has just run out his door after a group of rowdy Dwarves. Looks like they’re all going on an adventure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Happy February! I'm updating this monster daily, internet allowing- it's already written, yay! If anyone is wondering where I've been, what I've been doing, and plans for the future, a more detailed note is going up tomorrow morning on rteaganbooks.com  
> I love crossovers. Enjoy!

It started with an epic four day ‘projectile-expulsions-out-both-ends’ stomach virus to end all stomach viruses – and possibly also the end of whatever small sense of dignity Stiles had managed to scrape together over the years. Blood relation or no, there are some things a grown man should never have to see another (mostly) grown man do. Sorry Dad. Scott-I’m-a-medical-professional’s-kid-so-I-know-what-I’m-talking-about-(and also I’m still totally in denial about paranormal happenings that don’t directly happen to me ever since my hunter girlfriend dumped me)-even-though-yeah-NO-McCall was of the incorrect (incorrect!!!) opinion that it was just a hardcore version of the flu that was going around.

It was not.

Stiles knew evil when he …expelled it.

So actually it maybe started with the fact that more than a year into this the-paranormal-is-not-just-real-but-also-squatting-in-the-abandoned-building-down-the-street-what-the-fuck-is-my-life-even madness and still still it took a crisis of fatal proportions before anyone listened to Stiles’ theories the first time. That’s just doing friendship bad, Scotty. Sorry, true facts.

  
Stiles holed up in the hall bathroom for two of those days - oscillating (Ha! Take that SATs. Second period AP English for the win) between delirium and moments of vividly bright torturous lucidity and wishing for death. Fervently. When he emerged, with a new appreciation for Hawaiian scented Febreze and running water, his limbs were shaky as a newborn horse and Dad was frowning at him with an expression that was perilously close to the one he used when he was threatening a trip to the ER. Neither of them were fans of that particular level of hell so it wasn't an expression that was used often.

"M'fine," Stiles slurred alarmingly. His tongue was all lazily stuck to the roof of his mouth which tasted like ass for the record. Well. He assumed.

Dad did not look convinced.

It took effort to prise a winning smile from the depths of misery and despair and also work his jaw into proper communicative mobility. "No, seriously, Dad. Totally fine, gonna go die in my room now."

  
A callused palm pressed against his forehead, fingers brushing back the tufts of hair that had recently been trying to grow into a big-boy haircut and Stiles hadn't decided whether to buzz off or not. Scott said he liked it but Scott also ate paste until they were ten.

"The fever broke, at least," Dad grumbled. "You look like hell, kid."

  
Stiles nodded sagely then immediately regretted it. Bright burning lights and pounding head and movement did not mix. "My guts went down the toilet," he said sadly.

Dad clapped a hand on his back and steered him towards his room. "I'll call in sick if you--"

"Nope. I'm good. I promise. Go and do your civic duty. I'll call if there's anything -- you know, strange colors, bodily organs actually propelled out my body."

Dad chuckled but his hospital-stress lines receded and he reluctantly let Stiles wobble the remaining twenty feet to his room under his own steam.

"Get some rest, I'll check in on you before I leave."

Stiles agreed with a grunt and entered his room as quickly as he could manage without upsetting his stomach again before Dad changed his mind and played hooky from his shift anyway. He’d just gotten his position back, he couldn’t afford to take days off but that wouldn’t be enough of an argument for the Sheriff. Dad had been a little clingy lately ever since Gerard Argent had so kindly rearranged Stiles' face and he'd been forced to blame an anonymous figurative group of angry rival lacrosse players with a vendetta. Yeah, Dad didn't believe Stiles believed that one either. By now he'd probably had conjured up so much worse that the fear of confirmation was keeping his tongue. No one could repress like a Stilinski.

There'd been pamphlets mysteriously appearing all over the house though. Things about bullying mostly but there'd been a 'coming out as a teen' that had been interesting. Informative. Interesting.  
Anyway. One little 'I'm gay' comment one time while standing outside a gay club and suddenly everyone's all ‘define your sexuality.’

He pushed the door firmly shut with a deep relieved breath and made it to his bed, flopping face first into his pillow, before he realized he wasn't as alone as he should have been.

The window was wide open and the thing had obviously climbed through it like all manner of creepy supernatural trespassers were want to do. It lingered between his bed and the window, glaring at him hatefully.

The thing in his room could be said to look human if one had only a passing acquaintance with what humans were supposed to look like. Its body – and Stiles was using that term as loosely as possible - was…half-formed. No. Seriously. Everything was halved. One leg, one arm, one big bulbous eye with the longest mutant lashes Maybeline would die to sign. You know, forgetting all the other horrors of half a damn head. The right side of the creature was completely caved in, as if someone went Hulk SMASH and cleaved-- okay, imaginative brain. Thanks for that. That's enough for now.

"Fuck my life," Stiles groaned miserably. He eased his hand under his pillow, reaching for the phone he'd put there, his joints moaning in protest, his head throbbing in rhythm. Because Stiles was a man of many talents and practically endless gifts and good qualities, he thumbed his cell on sight unseen and hit speed dial.

Muffled ringing came from his pillow then the sound of Scott's voicemail. The thing shifted and hissed, revealing a half-mouth full of razor sharp teeth. Stiles tensed, his stomach gurgled distressingly. A short hysterical laugh got bitten back, the tang of rising bile already burning his throat. And yeah, he totally was going to shit his pants too.

Know what else was doing friendship bad? Not answering important phone calls of a dire and deadly nature!

Come on, Scott! Come on, come on, comeoncomeoncomeon!

"I can't pick up right now but leave a message ---"

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut as the world swam away from him for a moment. Just a moment, he swore.

Except when he came to he was blinded by green rolling hills covered in wildflowers, a bright cheerful sun blazing overhead, and the sound of children giggling happily somewhere out in the distance. It was crazily idyllic. Also, so not his bedroom.

Furthermore, not only was there no sign of the thing from the black lagoon that should never have existed but he still was not alone. Beside him, Derek Hale was spread out on his back, arms and legs akimbo, deeply unconscious but otherwise breathing peacefully and unharmed (it appeared). Oh, yeah, and naked as the day his little werewolf self was born.

Fuck his life really.

Stiles buried his head in his thankfully still clothed arms and cried softly manly tears of hysterical pre-panicked I'm-laughing-only-because-actually-crying-would-take-too-much-hyperventilation. Then, 'cause he just couldn't help himself, he said: “Looks like we’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto.”


	2. An Ode to Patience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek and Stiles figure a few things out: namely whose fault is this.

For all that Derek was used to being alone, it was never anything that got comfortable. He wasn't built for it. Werewolves as a species were not created for it. Pack was everything. Having nothing and no one made you nothing and no one. A werewolf without family, without pack, a werewolf who was an omega...it was something that he'd learned early to associate with grim frowns and careful panic-stricken whispers. Omega meant nothingness, emptiness, instability. It meant becoming what the hunters thought every werewolf was by nature - a monster, a savage mindless beast. And sooner or later every monster was cut down, either by other werewolves or by the hunters themselves. Usually by then it didn't matter anyway, it was a mercy killing. If Omegas weren't completely insane they wouldn't have wanted to go on anyway.

Being alone was an intangible terror that cut down to the primal depths of him and went beyond physical pain or death. Derek could handle both of those. What was pain to a werewolf when in a matter of minutes, seconds, injuries would heal and bruises would fade? What was personal death in the face of a yawning chasm of endless nothingness?

And yet he had been in some fashion since he was sixteen years old. After the fire there wasn't much of anything left, all their possessions had gone up in the blaze along with their family - there was just Laura and Derek and the school supplies they'd stuffed in their respective worn bookbags and the clothes on their backs. Less. At least Derek had jeans and a tee and his extra gym clothes for the basketball meet he'd stayed late for. The day of the fire Laura had gone to school in full costume - I'm a method actress, Derek, for the next month there is no Laura Hale there is only Lady Persephone, she'd said proudly.

She was nearly right. After the fire, after they'd ran (better homeless and penniless together than fed and sheltered in separate foster homes), she was lady persephone for a week before they'd finally stopped at a Walmart three states over and stolen a change of clothing. She'd tossed the costume in the back dumpster and then cried bitter, silent tears for an hour after that because she'd wanted that part since freshman year and had worked her ass off for it. Because it hurt too much to cry for everything they'd lost. Everything Derek had sold away for a pretty face and his first sexual experience.

He was a grown man in his twenties now, Laura was dead, his uncle had killed her and Derek had in turn killed him. He was an Alpha of a pack that didn't understand what it meant to be a pack and he didn't have a clue how to take a half dozen blustering, ego-centric teenagers who were the very definitions of 'broken home' and show them how pack was more than just family. It was self.

So. Yes. He was used to it. It just never got comfortable. It's for this reason, and this reason alone, that upon waking in a strange world, completely naked, and looking over to see Stiles Stilinski having some sort of nervous breakdown or something damn near close to one, anyway, giggling to himself like a hysterical hyena...well, his first emotion is still relief.  
He discarded that and decided to go with the next emotion. "Stiles! What the hell did you do?"

Stiles rolled on to his back revealing the bat man logo on what Derek now was able to see was batman pajamas. That and the shadows under his eyes made his already young face look about twelve instead of the sixteen he actually was.

"Rude," Stiles grumbled without looking over at Derek. Actually, his gaze remained pointedly skyward while he lazily crossed his arms behind his head for all intents and purposes mindlessly cloudgazing without a care in the world. "Out of the two of us, who's the supernatural magnet? Hmm? Not I the totally normal, 100 percent ordinary human."

Derek looked at him hard, every inch of his disapproval contained in the glare. He considered telling him: "First, no one has ever accused you of normal and ordinary. Ever. Second, the only other supernatural creatures I'd ever met in my entire life were more werewolves. It wasn't until you that the paranormal Friday night horror picture show started crawling out the woodwork. How do we know you're not the magnet? Hmm?" Then took a deep breath and let it go. Not important.

"Get up," he barked instead. "We can't lay out here in the open like this. The last I remember it was dusk." Derek waved an arm pointedly at the unnaturally bright sky Stiles was still pretending he was so interested in. "This is middle of the day." The time warp was more concerning than the fact he didn't know where he was. Because he said so. He didn't even know where to start with the geography bit. It didn't look like Beacon Hills. It didn't look like California. Worse, it didn't smell like the freakin' United States.

Stiles groaned and sat up. His shirt pulled, exposing a sliver of taut, flat belly. Pale as one of those deep ocean fish that were born blind because what was the point in sight when there wasn't enough light to see.

Derek was momentarily distracted by the incongruous picture those big brown eyes pulled dramatically wide with that constantly in motion mouth for frozen in silence. Derek wasn't sure if he'd ever seen Stiles silent. While conscious.

“Oh My God! You're still naked? Put on some Clothes! What is wrong with you?!? Why would you- What-Why?!?”

  
Stiles flopped his hands around, gesturing wildly to, Derek assumed, indicate the entirety of Derek's experiences that all added up to make him think reclining in the nude was a good life choice.

Derek glared harder. Disappointed expectations meet How-Am-I-Not-Above-All-This-How. "Sure. Let me just go get something from my closet. Oh yeah. I guess not."

The wild gesticulation ratcheted up a notch. "Cover it up, Derek!" He shrieked a full octave higher than normal. Derek winced.

"There's nothing here to cover up with," Derek growled. "Stop being juvenile and focus. No night? No Beacon Hills? Ring a bell?"

Stiles jerked away, turning to face in the opposite direction from Derek’s disagreeable appendages. "No 'D' waving in my face," he muttered under his breath. Derek rolled his eyes. The boy regularly changed with his entire lacrosse team. Derek had gone to Beacon Hills High he knew what that was like, this should not be as big of a deal as Stiles was making it.

“Stiles!”

“Fine! God! But the first thing we're doing after we figure out where we are is getting you some pants. And a shirt. A whole outfit. There's so much clothes in your future - wait! Where are you going? You can't just stomp off like that what if someone sees you? What if there's an innocent old lady sitting on her porch enjoying the breeze with her cherubic grandchildren somewhere out there? Think of the children, Derek!"

Derek didn't stop walking though he did slow down enough so that Stiles could keep up. There was nothing but endless green pasture and gently rolling hills all around them. But if he breathed deeply in he could smell something cooking in the distance, fried meat, bread...there was a civilization out there. He could hear children playing somewhere in the distance too though he couldn't make out words no matter how hard he concentrated. It was a foreign language that rolled together in a sing-song lilting tone. His brows furrowed as he extended his senses as far as they could go. It was strange. Different. He was fluent in Spanish and could generally understand all the romantic languages plus identify some thirteen others from sound alone, languages were always something he could throw himself into and lose himself for hours, so he could say for certain that this didn’t sound like anything he’d ever heard before. Maybe Gaelic? Maybe?

Stills continued his soliloquy obliviously and Derek let him. It was almost soothing, the familiar white-noise of his chatter.

"Christ, how do you have so many muscles? Is it because you're a werewolf? It can't be because you're a werewolf. Scott's a werewolf and he's still the same lean, mean, average teen. Is it because he was bitten and you were born? Even your ass has muscles, Derek! Asses aren't supposed to--" The rest of his babbling came out muffled between Derek's fingers, he could feel the vibration of words along with the shift of Stiles' moving lips against his hand.

"Stop talking. Look." Derek used the other hand to point to a mammoth tree at the top of a little hill. Its branches spanned majestically up from a massive trunk. The whole tree was in full bloom, flush with green green leaves. Underneath the tree little tiny people danced and sang and cavorted happily, having some sort of celebration.

It was ridiculous but it kind of looked like... No. It was absolutely ridiculous.

Stiles pried Derek's hand away and lurched forward. "Holy God," he breathed. "Those are freakin' Hobbits."  
So. Pro: they were no longer talking about Derek's penis. Con: they were both having the same hallucination. Unless...  
Stiles whipped around. His eyes said he'd gotten to the same thought as Derek and was as equally horrified. "Quick, tell me something you've never told me before."

"What?"

"I need to know if I'm hallucinating you or just everything else."

Derek scowled. "How will that help? If I tell you something that you don't know what makes you think it’s true and not something you just think should be true?"

The tension went out of Stile's body abruptly, he dramatically crouched to his knees then realized simultaneous as Derek that that put him eye-level to where he should never be and, blushing tomato red, flopped to his back. "You're real. A hallucination would have made something up. Only real you would have argued about it first, contrary-wolf."

Derek scowled harder. “That also makes no sense. If you know I’d argue if I were real and your mind is making me up then isn’t it reasonable that you’re making me argue with you?”

Stiles gazed at him faux-curiously. “Do you want to be a hallucination, Derek? Is that something you want? ‘Cause you sure are fighting to convince me you are one.”

Derek ignored him. Sometimes with Stiles it was the only option. "If we assume you're not a hallucination and I'm not a hallucination then we can probably assume that they," here Derek gestured to the tiny dancing people with big feet he was not calling Hobbits, "are not hallucinations. If they aren't hallucinations then they can tell us where we are and maybe what you fucked around with to get us here so we can get back."

"Hey! First of all, congratulations on the if/then deductions. I'm proud of you. Your decision making skills are growing by leaps and bounds, it's almost like your first instinct isn't 'rawr rawr let's kill them.' Which, bee tee double you, congrats on not suggesting violence onto those cute little Hobbity heads. Secondly, we've already agreed that this is probably more your fault than mine. I'm just an innocent casualty to the mayhem that is your life, you're the one that is probably second cousins to the strange little half-man that visited me tonight-last night-whatever. Thirdly-"

"Strange little half-man? What?"

Stiles made the fakest whoops face Derek had ever seen.

"There might have been a one-legged, one armed, half-head humaniod creature that stopped by my room just before I woke up here? Maybe?"

Derek closed his eyes and counted to ten. Backwards. In four of the twenty languages he could count in. It was moments like this that he regretted making anger his anchor against wolfing out uncontrollably. It kind of made him out of practice with swallowing back anger.

"Tell me everything. Right. Now. Or so help me I'm stripping you naked and leaving _you_ out here to wander nude and alone."

"Ooo, kinky."

There was something wrong with the boy. That was the only explanation. Someone had dropped him on his head as a baby. Derek could feel his temple throbbing and that vein in his neck that bulged - usually when Stiles was around- bulging.

Stiles blew out a breath. "All right. Seriously, everything from the top."

\--

  
Everything from the top and by the time Stiles was done Derek was no more comforted than when this madness had begun.

"It sounds like a NasNas --" Derek hurried through before Stiles (who was mouthing the word NasNas) could interrupt with juvenile humor "- its a lower level Djinn, a wish granter. I've never seen one in person but the wish they grant generally doesn't turn out how the wisher would like."

"That's great but I didn't wish for anything. The last few days the only thing I've wanted is the return of normal intestinal functions. Which...huh, I haven't vomited in a while so I suppose that worked. Yay?"

"I didn't sense anything or wish for anything so that rules me out. It has to be you. Think. Think hard." Derek was in his twenties. He did not ridicule teenagers or go for cheap shots. Being mature did not pain him.

"I didn't do anything. I didn't even talk to it. Bathroom to bedroom, that's it."

Derek wasn't sure which he found more disturbing: if that statement was true...or the completely genuinely somber expression Stiles' face was making.


End file.
